Cormac's Journey
by RustyVenture
Summary: After things don't go as planned, can an arrogant Gryffindor redeem himself and become the man he was destined to be?   Follow his journey.
1. A Charmed Life

Cormac McLaggen stretched lazily in his compartment as the Hogwarts Express sped through the countryside. His final year had been an eventful one, to be sure.

He'd finally made the Gryffindor Quidditch team, done exceptionally well on his N.E.W.T.'s, and, most importantly, had gotten some valuable face time with the delectable Hermione Granger. _"So what if she hadn't put out?" _thought Cormac, _"She'll come around. They always do."_ In fact, were it not for its unfortunate end, Cormac would have called this year a smashing success.

But it had ended. Dumbledore had been murdered. The Dark Lord had returned.

For all his supposed "Gryffindor courage", the Headmaster's death had left Cormac feeling more than a little shaken. He'd heard the rumors – seen the signs. His father had returned from the Ministry with ill news more often than not. Disappearances. Muggles murdered. Distrust and unrest in the Ministry itself. But Cormac, brave and headstrong, had brushed it all aside.

He thought that the Minister would quell the uprising and, if it came to it, You-Know-Who would fall by Dumbledore's hand. No longer. Dumbledore, so powerful and wise, was dead, and it was a student of his very school who had done the deed.

Still, Cormac was not deeply troubled. He'd met the Minister – Scrimgeour seemed like an intelligent man and a good leader, and he had every reason to trust in his abilities. These so-called "Dark Times" would soon be all sorted out. And, besides, he was a pure-blood wizard from a powerful family. He was safe.

Cormac stood up to stretch his long legs and, at the same time, managed to grab the butt of a passing witch.

"Oh, grow up, Cormac!" shrieked a thoroughly peeved Romilda Vane.

Cormac only laughed as he returned to his seat. In his eyes, he had it all. He was young, handsome, a spectacular Quidditch player and had a prestigious position at the Ministry practically lined up for him. He simply couldn't bring himself to be too bothered by the state of the larger Wizarding World. Life was good.

Cormac stepped onto the platform and, gazing about, caught site of his parents. They stood smiling and proud, though Cormac thought he detected the ghost of worry on their features; his father, certainly, looked more tired and lined than usual – ill, even.

Shaking his father's hand and hugging his mother, Cormac regaled them with his great exploits as the McLaggens stepped off the platform and prepared to disapparate.

The McLaggen estate was located in the north of Scotland, nestled in a forested region of the Highlands. It was remote, purposely so, and accessible only by apparition. Cormac spent many a day in his youth exploring the hills, hollows, lakes and streams of the surrounding country, and would remember his summer holidays as times of peace and happiness. That is, when he wasn't having a violent row with his father.

A particularly nasty confrontation ensued almost immediately upon his graduation from Hogwarts. A few days after returning, Cormac had bounded down the stairs of the house, heading out the door, when his father called him into the living room.

"Where're you of to, son?" asked Mr. McLaggen, with just a hint of sternness in his voice. Cormac paid him little heed.

"Off to see my mates. D'you have a problem with that, da? I'm a grown wizard, you know…"

And then something strange happened. Where he normally would have risen up for an angry lecture, Mr. McLaggen now seemed to deflate, leaning back in his chair and heaving a tired sigh.

"Son… we need to have a talk."

"About…?"

"Quell your surly temper for a moment, boy, and listen. This is far more serious than you know."

Detecting the grave note in his voice, Cormac sat down, eyeing his father curiously.

"You know well the state of things. The Trouble has been brewing for years – Dumbledore's murder is only the beginning. We're at war now, son. It's chaos at the ministry. The Aurors are in over their heads just trying to prevent mass murder day-to-day, not to mention the constant threat of attack. The Dark Lord is recruiting every tool in his power; his strength grows daily. He's trying to destroy our world, and he won't stop until he's done it. Any wizard – man, woman or child – who stands in his way is risking death. And, son, I intend to stand in his way."

Cormac was beginning to shake now. His mother placed a comforting hand on his.

"Two men came to the house a week ago. I'd never seen them before, but I knew why they'd come. We're pureblood – it's our stock that He wants on his side. They came to see that He had our allegiance."

"And what did you say?" Cormac shouted. He was beginning feel quite numb.

"I said," began Mr. McLaggen, his voice soft but resolute, "that they had 10 seconds to get off my property before I turned them both into ferrets."

Cormac was silent.

"No blood-purity or status can protect us now. We're His enemies. I've had some friends at the Ministry put up protective enchantments around the house, and Uncle Tiberius is doing what he can to cover our tracks. But you're not to leave the house, son. At least not until I can be sure we haven't been targeted."

Cormac was perfectly still for a moment. He looked at his mother and father.

"I…" he struggled to compose his words. "I don't believe it."

"Son…"

"No. This can't be happening. How could you do that, da? Why didn't you just lie? Why didn't you tell them…"

"Now you listen here, Cormac!" his father began angrily. "You're a Gryffindor, like your father before you! Have you forgotten what that stands for? Courage, honor, loyalty. A McLaggen is not a coward – he stands ups for what he believes in! I thought I'd raised you better than that…"

Cormac could stand no more. "YOU'RE AN OLD FOOL!"

And he sped out of the house, snatching a bottle of Ogden's from the cabinet, as his mother and father called after him.


	2. Things Fall Apart

It was early the next morning when Cormac returned. He'd had a good time dropping by a few post-school parties, but was now feeling the full effects of a very potent hangover. It was not until his hand had touched the front door until a disturbing thought flashed keenly in his mind.

_Something's not right… _

"Mum?" called Cormac warily, stepping through the entranceway. "Da?"

His drawn wand did him little good. A spell hit him full-on as he entered the living room, knocking him to the hard-wood floor. His wand slipped from his grasp and, shouting, he reached for it – too late. A booted heel snapped it in half.

"Not so fast, there, junior," growled the bearded man who stood over Cormac. Another was poised over the still bodies of his mother and father. Both men wore long, black cloaks.

"You're just in time for the show, sonny-boy," jeered the bearded man, aiming a hard kick at Cormac's ribs. "We were just teaching your parents here to show the Dark Lord some respect." He gestured to his parents. His mother was barely conscious, covered in cuts and bruises. His father was dead.

"Watch close, now, boy – Forrester, finish the job." Cormac's scream echoed out as the jet of green light struck his mother. Beastly rage overcame him – in a flash he was on his feet.

Cormac stood a head taller than both men. He hammered the first with two blows to the throat and jaw – the bearded man fell to the floor. He'd tackled "Forrester" before the man had raised his wand. Cormac struck again and again, unrelenting in his fury. Forrester's face was turning to pulp. Finally, Cormac closed his hands around the man's throat, squeezing the life out of him. Cormac's tears fell upon him, mingling with blood. Forrester stopped breathing – turned cold – and was dead.

Cormac lost all control of thought and feeling. He would have no memory of what transpired after that – his mind a black blur of shocked agony. Never turning toward his parents' bodies, he ran out the door, into the forest beyond.

He was deep within the woods when he regained consciousness. It was the dead of night; no moonlight shown through the trees. Recalling the horror he'd fled from, Cormac was violently sick. His head spun until he collapsed on the forest floor. The deathly silence and the sweet smell of duff below overwhelmed him, carrying him off into a long, dreamless sleep.


	3. Practical Magic

Cormac awoke with a start.

Sunlight peered through the tree-tops, bathing the forest in soft, green light. He sat up slowly, trying to make sense of his surroundings. His mind was clouded, and he struggled to fully understand what had just happened to him – of how his life had suddenly fallen apart.

His parents were dead. _Dead_. The word seemed to reverberate in his consciousness, echoing off the trees that threatened to close in on him. _Dead. _Images flashed before his eyes – _his friends, holding drinks and laughing… the house as he approached through the trees… a hand on the door… the cold lifeless bodies of his mother and father… the Death Eater suffocating under his grip… _ He clamped his hands tightly over his eyes.

He tried to compose himself. What should he do? He couldn't go back, that much was certain. Maybe, if he could contact his uncle… No. They would be looking for him. Tiberius would be their first target – maybe he was already dead.

Hogwarts seemed the natural place to go. He would be safe there, at least. But how would he get there? He was countless miles away from the nearest town, nay, even the nearest _human being,_ magical or not. With a wand, it would be all too easy; he could simply apparate. But he had no wand.

_No wand._ He was crippled. To a wizard, a wand was everything – it was the very gateway to accessing even the most basic magic. A wand was a wizard's right arm, and without it he was nearly as powerless as a common Muggle.

Cormac felt like the best option would be to simply lay down and die. It would save Voldemort a good bit of trouble. But he didn't. Instead, he got up, stretched his legs, and began gathering dry wood for a fire. Cormac Mclaggen was nothing if not stubborn.

...

_"INCENDIO!" _

Nothing. Not a single spark. Cormac, pointing his outstretched hands at the bundle of wood and concentrating as hard as he possibly could, repeated the spell, louder this time. Again, nothing. He felt absolutely ridiculous.

For all his cockiness, Cormac had never really considered himself to be an exceptionally talented wizard. His marks in class certainly attested to this. Still, he did have a basic mastery of spells and, wand in hand, he could set a log to fire as well as anyone. But his education at Hogwarts had never covered wandless magic, or, if it had, he hadn't been paying attention.

_"LACARNUM INFLAMARAE!" _

Clearly, conventional spellwork didn't translate. Wandless magic required wholly different techniques, obviously, but as to what those techniques were, Cormac was clueless. Feeling as stupid and helpless as he had on his first day of class, Cormac tried one last thing, half-heartedly willing himself to believe that it would work; placing his hand over the fire, he simply snapped his fingers.

A few feeble sparks leapt forth, just enough to set the kindling aglow.


	4. Lost and Found

Cormac walked ever deeper into the solitude of the forest. Though wandless, he was still a wizard – an innately magical being, and the Scottish wilderness was one of the most deeply magical places in the wide world. With a little concentration, Cormac could feel it swirling and pulsing all around him, and he allowed it to guide him, following its magnetic pull as best he could. Where it would lead, he could not guess.

And as he ventured farther from the influence of civilization, the mundane slowly began to give way to the magical. Squirrels and foxes became gnomes and nogtails. The trees grew more wild and seemed to watch him as he passed. Enchantments, strange and sinister, gave the forest a will of its own. When night fell, the very air glowed under the light of the mystic moon, as if impregnated with pixie dust. Cormac crouched close to the fire, ever fearful of what lurked beyond; older and fouler things than Death Eaters still dwelt in the dark places of the world.

He ate nuts, berries, seeds, flowers, roots, mushrooms, insects – anything he could find. It was not enough to sustain him, and he knew that starvation was never far off. _Starved, cold and alone in the woods: a fitting end to the ever noble Cormac McLaggen, _he thought bitterly.

He'd spend his nights staring into the light of the meager fire, too afraid and troubled to sleep. His mind wandered in and out of memories, some pleasant, some painful. Or they were painful now, anyway. He would look back on his days at Hogwarts, or his summers at home, and see how little he had appreciated it all, and how terribly he'd treated people.

His father, his mother, his friends and all those nice, sweet, beautiful girls. Hermione. Her face would not leave his mind. How could he have been so cruel, so uncaring, so horrible to someone so wonderful as her?

_Wonderful? _he sneered, _You hardly knew her._ And it was true – he knew almost nothing of her beyond her warm smile, her flowing hair, and the soft curves of her body. He'd lusted after her, nothing more. She was just another girl, just another object to be obtained. But Cormac didn't want to believe that. He wanted - he needed – to believe that she'd meant something to him once, that he'd truly and deeply cared. But now, alone under the judging eyes of the hellish forest, he could not say that was true. His father had been right. Maybe this was what he deserved.

...

It came on a grey morning in August. Cormac had spent over a month wandering, and had all but given up hope. But, at long last, he saw it.

The trees had begun to thin a bit, and there, sitting neatly in a small clearing, was a tiny house. Cormac expected it to be abandoned – it looked quite ancient – but, lo, a chimney protruding out of the thatched roof was smoking merrily.

Cormac approached cautiously. What manner of person would make their home in this place? With a jolt of fear, he remembered tales of evil hags who lived in the forest and snatched children from their beds. He circled the house, for Cormac was far too hungry to heed ghost stories now.

Someone was drawing water from a well. Strangely, it appeared to be no more than an old woman. Not a hag, but a very ordinary old woman; she could have been someone's grandmother. Whether she was Muggle or wizard-kind, he could not tell, and he continued to survey her warily.

Suddenly she spoke. "Well, don't just stand there, lad! Give an old lady a hand, won't you?"

Cormac, dumbfounded, rushed forward and began to haul the bucket up from the well. He didn't know where to begin.

"There's a good boy. Now, when you've finished, come on inside and I'll fix you a meal." The woman hurried off inside before Cormac could compose a single thought.

...

Having drawn several buckets of water from the old stone well, Cormac slowly made his way inside, still thoroughly confused. Just who was this woman? And why was she offering food to a strange boy who'd wandered out of the woods? He could only imagine how he must have looked after so much time in the wilderness…

These questions would have to wait, for, as soon as he'd stepped inside, Cormac was ushered to a wooden table and presented with a large bowl of what appeared to be mushroom soup. Wary though he was of accepting food from mysterious old women, Cormac was not about to pass up his first hot meal in weeks.

Whoever this woman was, one thing was certain: she was an excellent cook. After finishing what had been the most satisfying meal he'd ever eaten, Cormac decided that anyone who could make a stew that wondrous was worthy of his trust (though, he mused, perhaps she was just fattening him up for later).

"So, what brings you so far into these woods, sweetheart?"

"Er…" What should he say? Could this woman really be trusted? "I'm lost." It was true enough.

"Lost? Well, that won't do at all!" exclaimed the woman, sounding every bit the concerned grandmother. "There's a town about a day's journey north. I've seen too many winters to make the trip now, but I'd be glad to give you directions. You'll stay here tonight, rest up, and shove off in the morning."

Cormac, glad to have found someone so seemingly kind and helpful, was still too dazed to form much of a response.

"Er… alright. Thank you so much, Mrs.…"

"Call me Gran, dearie," said the woman, smiling kindly. "And you are?"

Cormac hesitated. His name was not something to give out freely anymore. For all anyone knew, Cormac McLaggen was dead. He could be anyone he wanted. He could start again.

"Brayan."

Good riddance.

"Well, Brayan, glad to have you. Now," said Gran, fetching an axe from the doorway (and greatly startling "Brayan"), "there's a pile of wood out back with your name on it. When you've finished, you can gather some more mushrooms for supper. I'm making venison!"

Standing up from the table, and thinking that this was undoubtedly one of the strangest experiences of his life, Cormac grabbed the axe and walked briskly out the door.


End file.
